What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempé or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweariéd,

For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue,

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to. whom thou sayʼst,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'-that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

2360

13

THE TROSACHS

There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for One

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass

Wither'd at eve.

From scenes of art which chase

That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass

Untouch'd, unbreathed upon :-Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May),

The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

W. Wordsworth

The poems "How delicious is the winning," Rarely, rarely, comest thou," "A widow bird sate mourning for her Love," and "Life of Life! Thy lips enkindle" have been removed from the "Golden Treasury" in the New Edition. In the eighth stanza of Wordsworth's Ode the missing line has been supplied :

"On whom those truths do rest

Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave.”

APPENDIX.

A

THE following account is taken from a volume of Reminiscences of Writers, published by Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke

A beautiful copy of the folio edition of Chapman's Translation of Homer had been lent me. It was the property of Mr. Alsager, the gentleman who for years had contributed no small share of celebrity to the great reputation of the Times newspaper by the masterly manner in which he conducted the money-market department of that journal. Upon my first introduction to Mr. Alsager he lived opposite to Horse-monger Lane Prison, and upon Mr. Leigh Hunt being sentenced for the libel, his first day's dinner was sent over by Mr. Alsager.

Well, then, we were put in possession of the Homer of Chapman and to work we went, turning to some of the 'famousest' passages as we had scrappily known them in Pope's version. There was, for instance, that perfect scene of the conversation on Troy wall of the old Senators with Helen, who is pointing out to them the several Greek captains, with the Senator Antenor's vivid portrait of an orator in Ulysses.

One scene I could not fail to introduce to him-the shipwreck of Ulysses, in the fifth book of the Odysseis,' and I had the reward of one of his delighted stares, upon reading the following lines :

Then forth he came, his both knees falt'ring, both
His strong hands hanging down, and all with froth
His cheeks and nostrils flowing, voice and breath
Spent to all use, and down he sank to death.
The sea had soak'd his heart through; all his veins
His toils had rack'd t'a labouring woman's pains.
Dead-weary was he.